


blood on the blade

by sergeant_angel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya's List, Book and Show Canon, Character Study, Fix-it fic, Gen, i'm just going to fill in those plot holes you left for the sake of shock value, petyr baelish is interesting but he's a creeper, seriously d&d what the fuck, super creeper, surprise guest maaaaybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: "A girl should be bloody too. This is her work."Arya remembers these words when she kills Petyr Baelish.This is how she gets there. This is how her list grows. This is why she did not clean her blade.(or, a fix-it for all those weird plot holes and inconsistent characterizations D&D gave us)





	blood on the blade

**Author's Note:**

> I had lots of thinky thoughts about the weird inconsistencies of the Stark Sisters in season 7. This is my attempt to fully embrace the badassery of Baelish's death but also filling in all the gaps that were left so Sansa could have her super dramatic reveal. mileage may vary.

_Dunsen_ _. Meryn Trant._ _Illyn_ _Payne._ _Cersei._ _Valar_ _morghulis_ _._  

 

Arya goes to Bran and he tells her of what Littlefinger has done, of what he has made Sansa believe. Arya is confused at first—of course she was lying, and Sansa should have known. Arya has never wanted to be Lady of Winterfell, to wear fancy dresses that would only tangle around her legs as she practiced her needlework—but then she remembers her first time playing the game of faces, and it makes more sense. She can't expect Sansa to be good at it; No One wasn't, not at first.  

 

 _Valar_ _morghulis_ _._ _Dunsen_ _. Meryn Trant._ _Illyn_ _Payne._ _Littlefinger_ _. Cersei._  

 

Sansa finds her in the godswood, sharpening Needle under the weirwood. In a low voice, Sansa tells Arya about Littlefinger, about all she and Bran have seen him do. This, Sansa tells her, is what Baelish does. He turns families and friends against one another. He turns sisters against one another. Sansa holds Arya's gaze and her meaning is clear: _we are stronger than they were, and he will not win_.

"What do you need from me?" 

Sansa looks at the blade between them almost unwillingly. As if she is afraid to ask this of Arya. As if Arya will balk at giving the gift to the man responsible for ending their father's life, who designed or facilitated the deaths of so much of their family.  

"We will give him a trial," Sansa finally says. "And then he will die." 

Arya sheathes Needle and does not bother to hide her smile from her sister. If one were generous in tracing the course of her life, one might deduce that it was Littlefinger who made her this. His actions set her on a path of blood and survival. He killed Jon Arryn, starting a course of events that led to Ned Stark's death, Robb and Catelyn's; that sent her fleeing with Yoren; to Gendry; to Harrenhal and Jaqen; from there to Braavos, to the House of Black and White. She is deadly because of him, in some ways, and it will be fitting that now he shall die because of it. 

"He taught me many things," Sansa's eyes are unfocused, seeing something far away. "I hate him for so much, but I cannot hate him for making me learn to survive." 

Arya thinks of _her_ survival, of the Waif, of water dancing and faces, and the strange path she has taken to return home. She lays a hand on her sister's arm, because she understands what Sansa is truly saying. They might not be here, the last of the Starks, without learning to survive because of Lord Baelish's actions. What he taught them will be his death. 

Arya squeezes her sister's elbow with a softness she rarely shows. "Then we must be certain to thank him for his many lessons." 

 

 _Dunsen_ _. Meryn Trant._ _Illyn_ _Payne._ _Littlefinger_ _._ _Cersei._ _Valar_ _morghulis_ _._  

 

Lord Baelish finds Arya in the godswood, just as Sansa had. His threat is implicit in his presence, standing over her as she sits beneath the weirwood.  

"How do you find Winterfell, Lady Arya?" 

She does not correct him, or allow him to call her just Arya.  

"Cold." 

"And your sister?" 

"Alive." 

"Ah." Baelish smiles, a strange, thin thing that is as false as his deference. "Yes, indeed. She's clever, your sister, to survive King's Landing under Cersei and the Boltons." 

Interesting. A lie. Arya does not doubt Littlefinger's... _fondness_...for her sister, but he does not think she is clever. 

That will work well for them. 

"Have you received word when your brother the King will return?" 

"No." 

"My Lady, have I done something to offend you?" 

Arya sets aside her whetstone and looks up at him. "Lord Baelish, what could you have done that would cause me offense?" Her eyes bore into his before she smiles. "Forgive my manners, Lord Baelish. I have been too long from Westeros. Please, sit." 

Littlefinger looks surprised, but pleasantly so. "There is nothing to forgive, Princess, if only you forgive me for any suspicions I had against you. You see, your sister is very dear to me, and I feel protective of her. _You_ can protect yourself. Sansa is--" 

"A proper lady." 

"That is one way of putting it, I suppose." Baelish laughs and inches closer to her. He probably thinks he is being stealthy about it, and Arya lets him live with that delusion. "She takes after your mother, very much so." 

Arya keeps her words caged—that she knows, of course she knows. That sometimes she catches a glimpse of red hair and thinks for a heart-stopping moment that her mother is alive. That sometimes she catches a glimpse of _herself_ and thinks her father is roaming the halls.  

"I only had the pleasure of seeing your aunt once, but you have certainly taken after Lyanna in your ferocity and beauty." Petyr Baelish reaches for Arya then, his hand stroking over her cheek and brushing at her hair.  

Arya Stark's skin crawls at his touch so she pushes Arya Stark down, down farther, until No One is left, because what does No One care if Littlefinger touches her? No One recalls Arya Stark being called plain, called horseface—she would be happy to have someone call her as great a beauty as Sansa, as Lyanna. She entertains the notion of killing him now, of taking his face and feeding the rest of Baelish to Ghost and Nymeria. 

No One smiles. "Perhaps we can speak again, Lord Baelish." 

 

 _Valar_ _morghulis_ _._ _Dunsen_ _. Meryn Trant._ _Illyn_ _Payne._ _Littlefinger_ _._ _Cersei._  

 

Baelish find her again, with words murmured, lips brushing her ear, as he tries to plant seeds of doubt in her mind. Of Sansa's ambition, of how she never _truly_ viewed Jon as a Stark, how he only tells her this, Princess, because he fears for the North. 

His hand is on her knee, sliding higher with each sentence. 

There is a cough from the edge of the godswood and Baelish jerks back from her, which is fortunate since it means he now gets to keep both of his hands.  

The interloper is wearing the white sunburst on black of House Karstark, and this man makes the hair on the back of Arya's neck stand up. She knows him. 

"My lord. Lady Sansa seeks your council." 

"Of course." Baelish rises, dusting snow from his clothing. "I beg your leave, Princess." 

Arya waves him away, staring at the Karstark man. He is short and portly with broad shoulders and thick white hair and a full beard. She has never seen him before, but she knows him. 

He nods at her, and then he and Baelish are gone. 

 

 _Dunsen_ _. Meryn Trant._ _Illyn_ _Payne._ _Littlefinger_ _._ _Cersei._ _Valar_ _morghulis_ _._  

 

Arya does not sleep until the sun reaches its fingers over the horizon. Instead, she spends the night roaming Winterfell, trying to find the Karstark man.  

And in the darkest part of the night, she slips into Littlefinger's room, kneeling next to his bed and leaning close. 

"My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell," she whispers to him, hoping it carries into his dreams, that it echoes and breaks into whatever sweet respite he has. "I want you to know that the last thing you're ever going to see is a Stark smiling down at you as you die." 

 

 _Valar_ _morghulis_ _._ _Dunsen_ _. Meryn Trant._ _Illyn_ _Payne._ _Littlefinger_ _._ _Cersei._  

 

The dagger is sharp and slices through Petyr Baelish's neck with no more resistance than butter would offer. His eyes remain on Sansa as he dies—not slowly, but not quickly, either-and as Arya told him, a small smile plays across Sansa's lips. She did not, after all, specify _which_ Stark would be smiling at him as he died.  

Arya does not clean her blade right away. She stands, watching his blood spill on the stones of Winterfell, and breathing comes easier.She will sleep better tonight with one less name to hate, and that is why the steel still has Littlefinger's blood on it. Lord Baelish collapses to the floor, and moves no more, and Arya remembers. A handsome face, hair white and red, who gave her teeth in Harrenhal. Other men wore that face, men who had trained her and sent the Waif to kill her, and one of them was even _him_ , her Jaqen, and she wonders, as she does, what became of him after _A girl's name is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and I'm going home._

It is _that_ Jaqen, of Harrenhal, that she thinks of when she kneels next to Sansa, who stares at Baelish's body with revulsion and sadness. Sansa loved him, in a way, but that did not change the fact that he had to die. 

 _He who passes the sentence should_ _swing_ _the_ _sword,_ Arya remembers, but Sansa is no swordsman and the sentence was just as much hers as Arya's. She would have killed Littlefinger on her own, certainly, but it is better that it comes from both of them.   

It is with these thoughts that she takes her blade and wipes it carefully on the shoulder of Sansa's splendid cloak, the wool dark enough that the blood is hard to see. 

"The lady should be bloody too. This is her work." 

Sansa looks at Arya, eyes wide as she presses her lips into a thin line, nodding.  

 _This_ is when Arya sheathes her blade, taking her place behind Sansa and Bran, watching them, guarding them.  

The Karstark man meets her gaze, tilting his head and offering her a small smile. He mouths something and bows to her before turning and leaving. 

White on black. _Jaqen H'ghar is dead_. A dead man haunts the ghost of Harrenhal.

It takes Arya a moment to realize what his silent words were, before they hit her so hard she goes numb. 

 _My_ _l_ _ady of Stark._   

 

**Author's Note:**

> I, personally, am a fan of rogue faceless man Jaqen just randomly showing up at Winterfell lowkey ready to fuck shit up with Arya
> 
> this was also originally 300 words of explaining Arya's actions in season 7 and then evolved into...this


End file.
